The portal snapped shut behind Jennifer with a soft crackle of frost, leaving only the warm salt breeze and the endless lap of waves against white sand.
Kame Island stretched small and idyllic before her: a single pink house perched on a tiny outcrop, palm trees swaying lazily, the turquoise ocean stretching to the horizon in every direction.
No cities, no helicopters, no gods of mischief plotting in the shadows. Just sun, sea, and the faint, distant cry of a gull.
She had come here for one reason: the Kamehameha.
In her fragmented memories of old anime episodes, the technique was legendary—raw ki condensed into a brilliant blue wave of destructive energy. If she could master even a fraction of it, layered atop her soul-bound frost powers, the possibilities were… intoxicating.
And the teacher? Master Roshi. The Turtle Hermit. The old pervert who somehow turned lechery into a bizarre form of enlightenment.
Jennifer adjusted the simple black tank top and cargo shorts she'd manifested on the way through the portal—no need for tactical gear here. She walked barefoot across the warm sand toward the house, hair loose and dark against the sunlight.
The front door was open. Inside, an ancient television blared some game show. A small orange-and-red turtle ambled across the wooden floorboards. And there, lounging on a beach chair with a magazine open on his lap, was Master Roshi.
He was exactly as she remembered from grainy episode stills: bald, bearded, sunglasses perpetually perched on his nose, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal a scrawny chest. A long staff leaned against the wall nearby. He looked up as she stepped into the doorway, and for a heartbeat his jaw went slack.
Jennifer felt the shift in his posture—the way his sunglasses slipped half an inch down his nose, the way his magazine tilted forgotten toward the floor. She could practically hear the cartoonish boing sound effect in her head.
"Well, well, well," Roshi drawled, voice suddenly an octave lower. "What beautiful young lady has washed up on my humble island?"
Jennifer folded her arms. "Master Roshi?"
"That's me." He pushed the sunglasses back up, failing to hide the gleam in his eyes. "And you are…?"
"Jennifer Hale. I'm here to learn the Kamehameha."
Roshi blinked once. Then twice. Then he barked a laugh so hard his chair creaked.
"The Kamehameha? Kid, that technique isn't some party trick you pick up in an afternoon. It takes years of discipline, training, and—" he paused, eyes drifting south of her face "—a certain… spiritual alignment."
Jennifer didn't move. "I don't have years. I need it now."
Roshi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin widening. "Bold. I like bold. But no. I don't teach just anyone. Especially not strangers who show up looking like that without so much as a fruit basket."
She exhaled through her nose. Patience. She had come across dimensions for this; she wasn't about to incinerate the only teacher who knew the move.
"I'm willing to earn it," she said carefully.
Roshi's grin turned sly. He stood—surprisingly spry for a man who looked a hundred—and circled her slowly, staff tapping the floor like a metronome.
"Earn it, huh?" He stopped in front of her, head tilted back to meet her eyes. "Tell you what. I've been lonely on this rock. Krillin and 18 are off doing… whatever married people do when they're not training. Turtle's not much of a conversationalist. So here's my price."
Jennifer braced herself.
"One deep kiss. Tongue. Ten full minutes. And then…" His gaze dropped blatantly to her chest. "Twenty minutes with those magnificent breasts. Mouth only. No hands. Just… appreciation."
The urge to summon a localized blizzard and turn the old man into a popsicle surged through her like static. Her fingers twitched; frost already prickled under her nails.
But she needed the technique.
She needed the power.
And she had endured far worse violations than a lecherous old man's bargain.
Jennifer met his gaze. "Deal."
Roshi's sunglasses nearly fell off.
He recovered quickly, clearing his throat. "Well then. Let's not waste time."
He stepped closer. Jennifer didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, giving him access. Roshi reached up—surprisingly gentle for someone so shameless—and cupped the back of her neck with one weathered hand. His lips met hers.
The kiss started slow—almost tentative, as though testing whether she would truly allow it. Then he deepened it. His tongue slipped past her lips, exploring with practiced confidence that belied his age.
He tasted faintly of salt and something sweet, like the pineapple soda cans scattered around the house. Jennifer kept her eyes open at first, watching the way his eyelids fluttered shut in bliss, but eventually she closed them too, letting the rhythm take over.
Minutes passed. Five. Then eight. Roshi's free hand hovered at her waist but never quite touched—honoring the "mouth only" clause in spirit if not intent.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, curling against hers, retreating only to dive back in again. Jennifer breathed through her nose, steady, detached.
She catalogued the sensations the way she once catalogued kills: pressure, heat, texture, duration. Ten minutes felt both endless and strangely finite. When the invisible timer in her head reached zero, she pulled back first.
Roshi gasped, cheeks flushed beneath the beard. "Magnificent," he wheezed. "Now… the main course."
Jennifer lifted her tank top over her head in one fluid motion, letting it drop to the floorboards. She unhooked her bra and set it aside. Roshi's eyes widened behind the sunglasses; he actually swayed for a second.
She sat on the edge of the low table. Roshi knelt before her like a pilgrim at an altar.
He started with the left breast—lips brushing the skin first, reverent, almost worshipful. Then he closed his mouth over the nipple, sucking gently at first, tongue swirling in slow circles.
Jennifer stared at the far wall, counting breaths. The sensation was warm, wet, insistent. Roshi's beard tickled her skin; his hands stayed clasped behind his back as promised. He worked methodically—suction, release, flick of tongue, then deeper pull.
Five minutes passed. He switched to the right breast, mirroring every motion: gentle at first, then firmer, drawing the peak deeper into his mouth. Jennifer felt the faint tremor in his breathing, the way his body leaned in as though gravity itself pulled him closer.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Roshi's rhythm grew hungrier—alternating between long, slow sucks and quick, fluttering licks. He hummed once, low in his throat, the vibration traveling straight through her.
Twenty minutes arrived like the tolling of a distant bell.
Jennifer placed a single finger against his forehead and pushed him back gently.
"That's enough."
Roshi blinked up at her, dazed, lips swollen and glistening. For a moment he looked almost young—then the lecherous grin returned.
"Worth every second," he croaked. He stood, adjusted his sunglasses, and cleared his throat. "Right. Training begins now."
Jennifer pulled her top back on, expression neutral.
"Follow me to the beach, beautiful. It's time you learned what real power feels like."